


The Jack of Skulls

by Adelheid_Desgoffe_Taxis



Series: Zubrowka: A World Inside Out [8]
Category: The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-02-24 08:52:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2575520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adelheid_Desgoffe_Taxis/pseuds/Adelheid_Desgoffe_Taxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The most dreadful and unattractive person only needs to be loved – and they will open up like a flower”. The story of J. G. Jopling, Esquire's, life and death, told through the prism of his entirely unexpected love affair. (Rated explicit for later chapters)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Moonlit Shack

**Author's Note:**

> If my coming into this world depended on me, I wouldn’t have come therein;  
> And if I were to decide whether to go away or not, would I be gone?  
> But it would be best never to stride inside this ruined monastery,  
> Never go away therefrom, nor even appear on its doorstep.
> 
> Omar Khayyam
> 
> Hailed be the brave who dare love, knowing that all this will come to an end.  
> Hailed be the madmen who dare live, as if they were immortal.
> 
> From the film “An Ordinary Miracle”

... ... ...

 

...The howling motorcycle jumped over a mound of dirt and then deftly skirted a lonesome rocky ledge. On both sides of the road there stretched monotonous late-autumn fields with random rickety windmills scattered here and there. J. G. Jopling braked, dismounted his iron steed and stood firmly on the hard ground, by the roadside, with his slightly crooked legs apart, moist gravel crunching under his boots. Slowly the private inquiry agent pulled his flask from out of his breast pocket, the liquid of the remaining brandy rendering the small cut-glass vessel’s facets the shade of noble amber in the bright glow of the headlamp. To the east, tiny scattered lightpoints of the infinitely distant stars twinkled timidly in the cloudless, inky-blue sky; and to the west, dusty orange glow of the sunset was still burning, with a few long clouds twisting into thin transparent layers near the very horizon. The crisp autumnal air was frosty and prickly, and sharp gusts of field wind stubbornly stabbed the man in the face, freezing his freshly stubbled skin.

 

After a couple generous swigs of brandy, though, the evening cold ceased to be a nuisance and a hindrance. The esquire mounted his motorbike again, kick-started his engine, revved the motor and pulled off the roadside. Suddenly – well, actually, _not_ too suddenly, to think of it – a delightful desire rose inside him: to be close to Klara again; to sit down with her; to drink the miraculous herbal tea that no one except _her_ knew how to brew. A desire to help himself with that delicious jam that she made from rose petals – actually, he was not very fond of sweets, but whatever _this_ amazing woman made – the woman who had won the heart of the brutal esquire in spite of himself – he simply adored without fail. Similarly, it was likewise with coffee: Jopling did not favour this drink much and even despised it at times; but whenever it was brewed by Klara – a strong, fragrant sort of coffee, with a lemon slice naturally – the private inquiry agent was willing to give virtually anything in the world just to sip at this hot heavenly drink.

 

He would, in fact, sacrifice anything, _everything_ if only to fall asleep in her soft embrace... All those inns, where he often had to spend nights when on difficult missions away from home, left him pretty tired of their hateful, puritanical monotony. Sometimes, as it was, he did have luck to spend a night free of shooting and fighting with some cheap broad, fairly experienced in carnal matters; but as a rule, the inn-owners – especially in remote, ignorant villages – proved to be overly religious, cowardly shunning from granting suchlike shameful bonuses, treats and practices to their guests, firmly convinced that for such debaucheries, some punishment or other from heaven would certainly befall them, and that by saving their guests from such temptations they would surely grant much-coveted eternal life to themselves.

 

...Jopling’s motorcycle roared, the first autumn snow scattering up into the air from under its furiously whirling wheels. Dry, cold air hit him in the face, and snowflakes stung at his head and cheeks, avoiding only his eyes hidden under the goggles. The speed became rapid, and Jopling experienced that indescribable, almost sexual excitement the waves of which always rolled over him at moments like this.

 

On either side of the road, countless sacred stones and snags raced by, those shadowy objects to which Zubrowkians – this astounding nation with their inscrutably mythopoetical thinking and unrestrained imagination – attributed numerous semi-pagan properties that were forever beyond either grasp or comprehension of people like Jopling, a native of coldly rational America. Finally, when the last embers of sunset had already burned down on the firmament, the monotony of rural Zubrowka gave way to seemingly chaotic, yet in reality elaborately intricate maze of urban buildings. Before the motorcyclist’s eyes, curved streets of both working-class and criminal suburbs began to whizz by, their rickety houses alternating now and again with vast patches of wasteland overgrown with weeds and shrubs and soaked with the stale odour of the river that flowed here freely, indomitable and not restrained by the granite shackles of the downtown waterfronts.

 

Jopling raced though the city centre, down a street lit by only a couple of dim lanterns and by pale moonlight that desperately struggled to fight its way down through the clouds. He knew the city so well and had driven around its every street so many times that now, if he only wished, he could actually do it with his eyes shut. A belated rattling-clanking tram crouched past, wooden, rickety, obviously produced long before the last War. Then the Lutz Palace of Justice flashed by and disappeared back into the darkness – an ancient, gloomy gothic building, rain-drenched and weathered. Thereafter, the rumbling vehicle wheezed past an imposing arch which was propped up onto thick, clumsy columns in pseudo-Grecian style and on top of which a large metal shield with a black-and-gold city crest shone dimly. In the distance, on the Lutz Railway Station tower wrapped up in a wet mist, an old clock was hollowly striking the tenth hour.

 

The motorbike flew past the grim, unlighted old houses of central Lutz; skidded around a corner; shot along the edge of a slum victuals market, equally deserted and lightless at that hour; cut into an old, narrow, steeply slanted cobblestone lane and, emerging from it, sped up a narrow road. Jopling gripped the steering wheel tightly, determinedly. He still remembered how one day, he had been knocked off his vehicle, at full speed, down into a chilly and murky roadside river where he’d narrowly escaped death by drowning, having subsequently caught a terrible cold. Thus, nowadays the esquire honestly tried to be at _least_ more careful when driving.

 

... ... ...

 

Finally, when the lower part of the old city and its sprawling suburbs remained far behind, the shadowy shape of a small wooden shack loomed in the distance, and soon afterwards Jopling was pulling up at the porch, braking, digging his boot heels in the wet ground. The esquire had managed to get this building literally for next to nothing, and despite its dilapidated, decidedly pathetic state, he was glad to have purchased it, for the shack’s good location – in the suburbs, at the edge of a spruce forest, far away from any other human habitation – guaranteed its owner at least relative peace of mind and the absence of any chances of being detected and discovered, intentionally or accidentally, by the “Grey Foxes” militiamen.

 

The fresh autumn snow fell continuously from the heavy clouds in tiny solid grains, falling onto his bare head and leather-clad shoulders. Snowy, frosty wind either breathed into his face gently and timidly or tingled it as if with freshly sharpened knife blades. When Jopling arrived at the dwelling, the grand tight cover of the cold but fortunately dry and clear night had shrouded the land around him completely. The shack itself was hidden in darkness, and only its glass door glimmered dimly in the pale, uncertain light of the moon breaking through the gently rustling branches of tall, dark forest pines; and only a single star looked mildly down on him from a narrow slot between the clouds, twinkling above the treetops which swayed silently in cold nocturnal breeze.

 

Then, a slim, shyly moving silhouette appeared and stirred onto the porch. It was she, it was Klara, the young woman who had remained in the esquire’s house as its rightful hostess in his absence. Upon hearing the roar of the engine, she came outside to meet him, and when the man climbed off the saddle, she followed him into the humble abode without a moment's hesitation. Once inside, she promptly embraced him.

 

“Hello, Jop...” She murmured timidly, touching his face with her finely trembling hands, gently tracing his ragged contours and feeling the sharp bones of his massive jaw under her finger pads. “My dear, my sweet... I prayed to God that you’d return without danger...”

 

She pressed her tender lips to his rough cheek, feeling the snowflakes beginning to melt on his skin – oh, how frozen he felt, being straight from this chilly cold outside... But now, she was going to heat him up... She laughed softly with joy, and her musical, iridescent laughter was to him the most enjoyable, the most desired sound of the whole day.

 

Klara was never shy about her being in love with Jopling, about her passion for this man. She threw her arms around him, pressing her soft lips to his pale cracked ones and kissing him with hot determined kisses, fondly recalling all the times they had spent together. Oh, how terribly had she missed him – and now he is with her again... The pair quickly crossed the tiny veranda on which they had so many happy moments together, just sitting there, on warmer evenings, drinking flavourful herbal tea and enjoying each other’s company. Upon entering the main room, the esquire promptly took off his faded black leather coat with a soft burgundy lining, pulled off his heavy boots and put his menacing brass knuckles onto the table. Then, he grabbed Klara in his embrace and easily whisked the startled young woman up off the ground, demonstrating his strength to her and grinning happily, enjoying her stunned quiet yelps.

 

Often did Jopling have to spend his days – not once as long as a week or two on end –in the saddle of his motorcycle, be it downpour, hail, or snow, far away on country roads, his meals those of cheap meat and mush hastily consumed at countless roadside taverns - yea, many a time had he slept astride his bike, right in the saddle, without so much as dreaming of enjoying the cozy heat of a normal bed... Thus, having been away for two days on a mission in the mountains, Jop was dead tired and as he was washing his face, he felt being on his last legs, watching with his dull eyes as the water, brown with dirt and dust, disappeared into the washstand.

 

...Weary from his long journey, Jopling lay down on the prepared bed or rather, an old sagging couch which served as his bed. After so much time having been spent in the motorbike saddle, clutching the steering wheel, in an uncomfortable exhausting position, he desired nothing so much as a good rest. The esquire lay on his right side, stretching his strong but extremely tired body on the thick sheets and tucking one hand under his head. His thoughts were getting more and more knotted from the exhaustion of the day. The room seemed to be swaying in front of him, up and down, barely perceptibly, and he realized that it was the mental impressions of driving on a hilly road which had not yet wholly left his body’s memory. Then, Klara’s shy, slender form appeared in the doorway; with her cautious, quiet steps she approached the man, smiling softly to him – a warm, reassuring smile which always adorned her delicate face so sweetly and fadelessly.

 

Once at his bedside, Klara covered the relaxing man with an old rug blanket, passed her hand over his close-cropped head, gazing wistfully into his fatigue-dulled eyes, and kissed him on the cheek, her lips as soft as finest down. Obviously, she had spent all that day in the alehouse she worked at, deprived of any free time, cleaning up tables after the patrons and scratching the wooden floor of that low-life establishment where the air was filled with drunken shouting and wine fumes and steamy flavors of simple but delicious meals (which the woman was sometimes allowed to enjoy either on her own or in her beloved’s company). Anyway, it was Jopling himself who had secured her this job at his favorite bar. And despite all its drawbacks it was without doubt a far better place than the one Klara used to toil at before and where the great powerful wave that we call destiny had, in what was its own unpredictable yet always effective way, once brought her and the esquire together.

 

...With time J. G. Jopling even fell into the habit of taking Miss Gaal to his favourite bars and taverns once in a while, wishing to spend with her as much time as he could and wanting to show off before his buddies, as well. She still remembered distinctly how one late evening they returned to his home from such an establishment, and when Jopling began to undress for the night Klara immediately saw just how aroused he had become. “I tell ya wot, girlie. Me gonna be fuckin’ yer ‘ntil ya no longer able t’ stand straight. - The drunken, liquor-inflamed man promised in a husky snarl, bearing down onto the submissive woman, his breath hot and heavy with brandy vapours. – An’ ya believe me, Joplin’s a man of ‘is word”. And oh God, _did_ he keep his promise; he had taken her so many times that by the time the first light of dawn silvered the window, her innards were burning with the dull, almost unbearable pain. And yet, to her deep shame she did enjoy that night; enjoyed her man and the things he did to her, with his barely satiable need of her body and soul.

But however pleasant this memory would seem, never in her life would she forget another episode, the scene of a preposterous bar brawl, in which Jop was gravely wounded. It happened at an ancient, half-timbered haunt called “At the Last Lantern”, where the esquire brought his girlfriend one day. Inside this premise turned out even more miserable than on the outside. It was a dark, sultry, noisy area full of disreputable lowlife species of all kinds and shapes. The only sources of light therein were simple tallow flickering candles glowing feverishly on the tables and the walls, spreading around smoke and cinders and the suffocating smell of burning fat. But the drinks here were cheap, and the staff knew Jopling rather well. At first poor thing Klara felt decidedly out of place in this cheap, filthy, ill-kept, booze-reeking tavern. Its thick, heavy atmosphere was rendered all the more intolerable with unbearable odours of tobacco fumes, candle smoke, sour sweat and stale spirits. The clutter of beer mugs and the loud hollers of drunken patrons suffused the air, resonating off the dark walls, and an old disheveled piano was clanking madly in the distance under the fingers of some vile bloke attempting, with an almost psychopathic determination, to procure a chaotic quasi-jazz melody from it. All the time Jop spent at a long, scrubbed wooden table, sporting untidily split salt and pepper, which he shared with a dozen of some shady characters or others, he was deliberately draping his arm over the frightened, confused Klara in order to let everyone know that she was his and his alone. When he had already become fairly drunk and his speech stated to sound incoherent, Klara slipped out from under his heavy arm and got up from a bare wooden bench, having got considerably tired by the place’s stuffiness and tormented by thirst – she had not been daring to drink the spirits her companion enjoyed so much. Noiselessly she sneaked into a deserted, low-ceilinged, scantily lit room at the far end of the spacious hall, where the drunken yells were well muffled and where the regulars’ personal enormous beer mugs were kept under lock and key. Filling a large glass to the brim with pure mountain water from the tap, she drained it eagerly till the last drop and, leaving the vessel in the sink, returned to Jopling’s table. At once she saw that her esquire was heavily drunk, got louder and more garrulous than usual, and his candlelit face glistened with sweat. Then, completely out of the blue, there broke out inebrious shouting at their table, and then a brawl which rapidly evolved into a full-blown fight. At once Jopling, who had by then got too intoxicated himself to maintain his usual aloofness, was on his feet, silently and instantly dealing a heavy blow to the most loudly hollering fellow. The bloke fell, out cold, but at the same moment his companion thrust a revolver straight into Jopling’s chest. The sound of the shot was muffled because of the closeness of the weapon to his flesh; the esquire would have certainly gone crashing onto the beer-smeared floor of the bar along with the man he had knocked out, had not the terrified Klara and a couple other customers caught his heavy bulk at the last moment. Blood was gushing profusely out of the close-distance wound, and he was already unconscious. The barkeep, long accustomed to the events like this, helped the woman bring back home the wounded esquire who was hissing and moaning through clenched teeth. Later Miss Gaal nursed the gangster back to health with an almost saintly selflessness, but despite all his suffering and the long recovery, he remained awfully stubborn and never let her dissuade him from frequenting suchlike establishments in the future - he was just totally in his element there...

 

...Obviously, by now she was no less tired than Jop, and most likely, she could hardly keep her own feet; but whatever her current condition, Klara did not give it away and promptly left the room, proceeding with some housework or other, rattling something in the kitchen behind a wooden partition and scrubbing the floor. Only at nightfall which crept, almost unnoticed, into the squalid shack at the edge of the forest sleeping in the distant mist, did this modest, self-sacrificing woman join the man resting under a cheap but fairly warm blanket. As she lay in next to Jopling, he pulled her close to him, firmly pressing his chest against her back and throwing his arm across her waist, absent-mindedly stroking her flat belly with his large rough hand with a faint sigh of peaceful satisfaction.

 

Very soon he felt himself getting muffled by her soft quiet warmth and drowned in it, gently caressing her chest heaving with her every breath, his right cheek resting deeply against the pillow; and nothing bothered him now, nothing of consequence, nothing of which to care: neither all the things he had to do on that morning far, far away from here, nor the fact that Klara was blissfully ignorant of any particular subtleties that his occupation entailed; and in fact, it was even better like that, for her as well as for him. Yes; it was better like that… Very much better...

 

Despite Jopling having grown awfully thirsty for Klara who had been faithfully waiting for him all that time, on that evening he made no attempt whatsoever to touch her or else, to take her. Exhausted as he was from the long, dangerous journey, what he needed most was blissful relaxation ruled over not by furious, bestial passion but by quiet tenderness. And the fact that Klara was now beside him, that he was finally able to just touch her, embrace her, listen to her breathing in such close proximity to himself, was for him certainly more than enough.

 

... ... ...

 

...Faint, soft, timid moonlight seeping into the shack from all sides was mingled with the misty air of the room smelling of wet wood and dried forest herbs, and it shed onto the two persons lying silently in the old sagging bed, silvering their silhouettes, spilling over their hair and extremities, playing in the concealing blanket folds which subtly rose and fell in unison with their breathing. Otherwise, the hollow silence was so absolute that it seemed as if even the quietest of sounds would be heard from great distance, like a single spruce cone or a tiny acorn dropping through the air off their trees somewhere in the deep thicket behind the shack. Even the forest completely ceased its up to then incessant whispering in the slight wind. The air surrounding the humble, ramshackle dwelling was becoming colder and damper by the minute. But to the pair, the night did not seem menacing anymore, now that each of them was with the person they loved. Thickening darkness silently entered the room through the murky windowpanes – the impenetrable Cimmerian darkness of a damp autumn night shrouding the little rickety den and enveloping its inhabitants in its own weightless blanket, all the while transforming the previous day into a foggy, groggy dream, as if nothing had happened, absolutely nothing, as if very, very soon, on the morrow, the fresh dreams of the night just past would let the life itself begin anew – another life, the right and better one... Yes, it was even better that way; so much better...

 

... ... ...

 

...The esquire was slowly dozing off, and in this state of drowsiness, before the sleep would claim his mind entirely, a particular scene surfaced, whirling, from the deeper recesses of his memory.

 

_In the distance, on the opposite riverbank, there could be seen, silhouetted against the moonless sky, the clumsy walls weakened by the wayward and indifferent – no, just ruthless – time together with the long-notorious weather of the metropolis. Those limestone bulks rose over the carelessly dozing city on the far side of the wide river, its water deep and dark under an old granite embankment. Deceptive light of the lanterns flickering on the once formidable, but now cumbersome and entirely worthless bastions, as well as dimly burning windows of the numerous buildings took the place of the starlight which at that hour of the deaf dead of night was entirely absorbed by the impenetrable blackness of rainclouds._

 

_Hazy smoke drifted over the river, and scarce lights of the city’s poorer part swayed and quavered under the strong night wind, here and there, stubbornly breaking through the opaque veil of fog hanging in ragged tufts over the water which glistened vaguely in the manner of black oil. Lazy, mirror-like water reflected the dim stains of glow trembling silently on its tar-thick, coal-black surface and being rapidly caught into eddies which foamed angrily under an old and heavy stone bridge overhanging the wide river. It really seemed like it was not a river at all but the sky itself, overturned onto the ground, the misty sky clothed in thick dark clouds through which the prickly glimmer of distant autumn stars could hardly make its way._

 

_He stood leaning against the waterfront parapet, hiding his neck into his coat collar and frowning at the water below. Stone chippings from the low embankment wall crunched under his boots as he gently changed his legs’ position. Jopling’s pale blue-grey eyes, usually bright, now seemed almost black in the autumnal darkness, with no light reflected in them. His detached, half-drunk, half-mad gaze was directed at the opposite riverbank; but the surrounding blackness, only barely illuminated by the weak light sources, served only to further thicken the darkness of his own fragmentary thoughts._

 

_There, far in front of him, gleamed shadowy, fog-shrouded lights of low squalid houses perched here and there, closely together, along the steep hills of the farther bank, engulfed in the the moonless night. Most brightly of all glowed the windows of the “Crooked House”, an erstwhile nobleman’s residence confiscated one day from its disgraced owner (who had lost the favor of the Counts von Lutz) and after a considerable time converted into a brothel catering for countless urban dregs, having with the course of time certainly deserved its current notoriety. The house had been erected exactly down the steep slope, making its windows and columns seem to have been constructed at random. During the early months of his residence in Lutz, Jop himself would often call in at this place; but the graceful memory – huge thanks to it – had almost completely erased from his mind everything he’d been doing there..._

 

_He inhaled the damp night air, feeling the all-embracing cold of the sky and the river water sneaking into his lungs and spreading from there through his entrails. Then came a desperate desire to have a smoke, and Jopling felt bitter loathing directed at himself. It was already twenty years since he’d given up the smoking addiction – but not because he’d suddenly decided to lead a more healthy lifestyle; he’d kept on dropping in at opium dens long after that... No, his only reason for quitting tobacco had been that he’d simply found carrying cigarettes and a lighter on himself highly inconvenient, for at that time he’d just been starting his career of a hired gun and therefore needed to have more space for really necessary things like all sorts of illegal weapons and picklocks._

 

_A moment later, Jopling realized why he longed for a cigarette so desperately. It was just that his mind, tormented with a hitherto unknown lust, was trying to suppress and thus to displace another desire, a primitive, deeply animalistic one, which was so hot, so unfamiliar, so irrational, that he would still get afraid of it at times._

 

_It was just that he wanted more than anything to see again the girl named Klara, to talk to her, to touch her, to cuddle up to her young, lithe, graceful body, to cover it under his own, feeling his every muscle twitching and quivering with barely suppressed desire, and finally – to take her once, twice and many times again, to prolong the indescribable pleasure her body and soul provided him with for as long as possible, to go on and on until there would be no more drops left of the irrepressible sexual energy that had been rushing through him in a boiling, flaring torrent from the moment he’d got to know the unsurpassed Klara while she’d got to know him._

 

... ... ...

 

Meanwhile, young Klara was likewise slowly succumbing to the charm of falling asleep into the realm of peaceful dreams beside the person she loved; and likewise, somewhat dizzy thoughts drifted across her mind, swirling and whirring - albeit the thoughts quite different from those of Jopling’s.

 

_What wonderful, unexpected tenderness can all of a sudden awaken inside the most rough and cruel man in his arrant quest to get away from the pretensions of this dirty, sinful, hopeless world… In what depths of feelings he is able to dive without a trace, wildly and desperately, if only to forget about his deep-instilled imperfection, about his horribly shameful deeds… What an unbridled lust for life he possesses while obstinately trying to prove to himself and to the others that he is not as dreadful and hopeless as he seems… And how willingly and enthusiastically even the seemingly most fallen man can change, sooner or later, for the better, illumined with the vivifying rays and live-giving water of the genuine, selfless love!.._

 

_Surely in this all there is an original plan of some kind to be perceived, the one implemented from time to time for the sake of the most varied souls, in the hope that the depth of human nature, whose name is undoubtedly The Good, would at last manifest itself, breaking its way up through the dense layers of greed, hatred, cruelty, obsession and other shameful vices which are generated by nothing but fear of not receiving what one desires, and are actually not imposed upon us from birth but prove to be just thin empty shells that one can smash so easily, with only a gentle word and a tender touch – with a mere expression of the love that knows no fear and banishes fear from even the blackest of souls, preventing this fear from secretly feeding one’s vices and replacing it with repentance and a sincere desire to improve oneself, to thoroughly reform._

 

It was, she reasoned, clearly impossible to teach a man like Jopling how to take care of someone. It was, she felt, certainly useless to teach this ruthless, cold-blooded savage the budding affection, and simply stupid to outright force the genuine love upon him. For such a brutal, hardened man as Jopling was hardly capable of those things as yet; for in the end, all his former life was an endless violent struggle against either his own nature or the origins imposed upon him or the people who happened to stand upon his thorny path. But, as Klara had many a chance to ascertain, deep inside his soul the esquire was still capable of good feelings, of care and affection – and maybe, just maybe, even of true love. All the life required for these feelings to flourish in him was only her own care and affection and tenderness towards this man; in a single word, her own love.

 

Of course, J. G. Jopling was not ready for such grand-scale changes yet. No, she had to give him some time for this transformation; and then everything would happen by itself. But Klara was prepared to wait, all the same. To wait for as long as this would require. Because the only thing they both needed was time.

 

... ... ...

 

...To be continued with Chapter 2: "Lady Luck, Lady Separation"


	2. Lady Luck, Lady Separation

... ... ...

…Apart from them there remained nothing, as the world outside had seemingly ceased to exist while they lay in an old sagging bed side by side. It was perfectly quiet outside the cabin slumbering in thick profound darkness, drowsy and still. There was nothing to be heard but their quiet, measured breathing. The esquire was already asleep, but Klara still remained awake. Raising her head off the pillow, she glanced out the window, remembering how just several hours ago she stood there, waiting for her Jop to return and absent-mindedly gazing at the dull evening sky. There, above the house, the same dense rainclouds had crowded menacingly; and further away, beyond the forest, on the horizon, the sky had been brightened by, and severe ancient pines sketched in distinct black against, the amber shades of the autumn sunset, its bright yet icy-cold fire lighting an impenetrable veil of the clouds from below. But the last gleams of the sun had burned out quickly, its deceptively warm noble-amber glow changing consequently to bright orange, scarlet, purple and maroon before eventually becoming supplanted entirely by pitch-black. The night had shrouded the little shack in complete darkness, drowned its surroundings in the perfect silence of the small-hours. Only a tiny lonely star shone shakily, sorrowfully down onto the earth from unbelievably far in the tarry sky which at that dead hour brought to mind an idea of a grand celestial ocean, of a bottomless abyss. Klara sighed deeply, looking wistfully up at the solitary twinkling star, aware of its cheerless gaze. Somehow the woman was sure it was directed upon her and only her, the gaze of a star which strangely seemed to resemble a sparkling tear. Surely tears were mostly reserved for deep sadness and irretrievable loss; and what kind of loss _she_ would possibly face, while silently enjoying her stay with Jop in this humble abode which she – rightfully, Klara hoped – had already come to call their personal Eden on earth?.. The man she loved was here, in the same bed as her, and no danger whatever loomed on the Fate’s horizon, did it?..

The nightly darkness lay in waiting before the very walls of the shack, impatiently wafting in the corners and eagerly hoping for its hour to come to fully envelop the dwelling along with its tiny courtyard and inhabitants. The smell of rain still hung in the air, and the woman felt chilly despite her blanket. With an almost inaudible sigh she leaned back against the pillows, looking intently at the low wooden ceiling. Just a couple of months ago she would never have dared to dream that one day she, an ordinary farm girl and brothel-dweller Klara Gaal, would be lying just like now, with a man she barely knew but greatly admired, in a small cabin darkened by time and weather, on the very fringe of a dense Zubrowkian forest; that she would be receiving any hitherto unknown pleasure from his presence alone; would cling to him, seeking shelter in the firm warmth of his body from the cold and loneliness; would, after all, smile at him and kiss him on the lips.

He _is_ handsome, handsome – for her, yes, only for her, even though he is no longer young and there are large uneven teeth on his upper jaw and these scary false fangs on the heavily scarred lower one, and wrinkles lurking around his tired, deep-set eyes. Basically, he might not be considered handsome by current standards, but for her, for Klara, he is simply beautiful. Strength and firmness and protection – that is what Jop means to her now as he lies beside the girl, his solid, extremely reliable bulk next to her feminine body; as he slowly rolls onto his side and hugs her from behind, clutching her, inhaling the scent of her skin and hair - he is so much heavier and solider than his lean and vulnerable female companion in this desolate sanctuary on the brink of a seemingly endless forest.

Ah, if only the two of them would own exactly the same cabin, but somewhere near the sea, in the Maltese Riviera... And with a porch exactly like this and a pine tree like the one just over the roof – the huge, fragrant pine with cones hanging from its heavy branches and pitch frozen on its old trunk; only that would be a pine of another kind, the more stately and elegant one, which grows only in southern climes… And how pleasant it would be to sleep there, just like now, but on another night - warm, balmy and starry... Taking her wistful gaze off the solitary star unbelievably far away, forever off limits to a mortal soul like her, Klara Gaal closed her eyes, a happy light playing over her whole face, and the scenes of an imaginary, magical life at once filled her mind, flashing hastily through it and swiftly acquiring definite shapes and colors as clear as the real ones. They were only pictures, of course – only inventions, delusions, only a mix of what she had read in books and seen in silent movies. Indeed, in a sense she was not thinking but only dreaming; yet in her imagination, the dreams always and unfailingly came to life, as if she was actually there right now, in the Riviera and not at the shabby shack in the middle of a damp autumn night. And currently the picture conjured up before her mind’s eye was so bright and distinct as if she had not imagined it at all but was beholding it personally, in the flesh, in reality – the landscape, the scents and the sounds. Images came to her in rapid flight, flashing hastily through her mind, rich and alluring. A little coastal town floated out of the mist of her imagination like from a boundless ocean, its buildings and embankments slowly rising above the water like the ghosts of some other, long-forgotten life.

 _Its poverty_ _permeated everything from the wretched laundry fluttering under the little murky windows in the ruthless wind redolent of spicy sea salt, to the houses scattered along the narrow waterfront and shyly pressed against sharp coastal cliffs resembling the blades of long menacing knives, the bare walls covered with sand-colored plaster peeling due to the ubiquitous, salted moist; to the dilapidated bastions and towers overgrown with sour seaweed and wet moss – the remainders from an ancient fortress, once formidable and unapproachable but now looking ridiculously diminutive; and, finally, to the small fragile boats swaying on large waves which rolled incessantly onto the rocky shore with a deafening roar._ _Even the local_ _knights’ former temples along with their once-grand palaces were turned into simple low-life houses now, miserable and derelict. This was the main Maltese island's capital - the town of Hennessy, named so in honor of some half-forgotten eccentric captain, an old salt known at his time as a storyteller with irrepressible, tremendous imagination. A ridge of bald mountains stretched along the shore, shrouded in a transparent mist, their low smooth tops gilded by the setting sun. The air was suffused with the smells of fish and port, and the sea water was so clean that even from the upper floors of the houses there could be seen, looming under the ocean surface, the fabulous underwater forests – the great underwater realm forever hidden from the undeserving mankind, the realm which only naïve myths and old-fashioned beliefs purport in vain to recreate, perceiving the water surface as just a boundless mirror reflecting the grand celestials domains, and having no idea of its true majestic beauty. It was in these little towns where the Maltese low-life lived – all those smugglers, criminals and other demoralized elements, for the fashionable island certainly was called home not by the rich and mighty only; and probably, J. G. Jopling, her darling Jop, would feel just totally in his element there, really right at home..._

 _And there was_ _something deeply special about all this poverty, something one would not be able to find in the cold, hateful, indifferent Lutz._ This _poverty did not push you back, did not instill into you any fear or despair, but attracted you to itself as if it were a hidden magnet, a bright lamp in an impenetrable darkness, promising you loads of hope and plenty of pleasure. It had its own subtle, indescribable charm, its own vague promise of unlimited freedom kindly awaiting anyone who dared to visit this godforsaken piece of land_ _– for where there were no laws, no restrictions here; and where no one really did give a damn about you, the real freedom began, which no one could ever hope to snatch away. And if_ this _was not the greatest wealth one would wish to acquire, than_ what _was?.. Yes, the greatest freedom, the greatest wealth, which in its purest, most complete form lurked farther along the coast, at a certain remove from the main town._

 _There,_ _by a tiny quiet bay, hid a virgin paradise corner unfamiliar to the islanders, a perfect hideaway for anyone eager for peace and privacy. At nights, warm southern nights filled with flavors of the sea, places like this were the most marvelous and unparalleled. Moonlight sparkled and shimmered onto the waves, lazily - as always at this hour of the night - splashing at the sleeping shore._ _Mighty_ _pines crowded at the very edge of the water, and only the moments ago the slowly setting sun had gilded their rough bark with its amber glow, and now through their fragrant branches, covered here and there by tufts of tender young needles and barely swaying under a light evening breeze, the bright, perfectly round moon shone, its milky-white light streaming down like the tresses of a sea goddess from the ancient times, reaching down to its very roots. Large ragged rocks bristling with their sharp edges, glistening with the sprays of surf and covered with black salty seaweed, piled up at the edge of the water and in the quiet shallows, blocking to any daring bather access to the much-desired water._ _But_ _farther away from the shore, those formidable rough boulders gave way to the smooth, flat sea bottom made of white sand, adorned with occasional tufts of seaweed scattered here and there like tiny dark islands, the sunlight always rendering the shallow water a clear, tender-blue shade. Farther still, the deeper the seabed became the clearer one was able to witness the multicolor, mysterious underwater realm hidden from the other mortals’ eyes – its branched trees totally unknown to the firm land inhabitants, its coral and seaweed groves, its populace of countless nimble fish of the most unimaginable hues and shades as well as the mass of tiny creatures which filled the seas in multitudes and at the approach of the night illumined the water surface with millions of tiny bright stars._

It was precisely such a pristine Maltese nook – a deserted lonely beach under a low cliff, its shore built up of large stones sharpened by the course of time and replete with a quiet cove over which the ancient pines spread their crowns, their huge trunks glowing with amber hues in the rays of the rising sun – that Miss Gaal was mentally painting for herself before she slowly sank into a restful, blissful sleep, unwittingly pressing her back to her beloved’s steel-hard chest. Utterly unexpectedly, this tough sullen man inspired in her the dreams which she wouldn’t have so much as dared to invent before having met him, and of which existence deep in her brain she had not had a slightest idea. It was a wordless exalted frenzy of someone plain and ordinary, like an enchanting narcotic dream in the midst of a cold and monotonous life. However, the reality is always and undeniably stronger and more robust than any dreams, and Klara learned this as well as anyone in a hard, merciless way, a long time ago.

She did not notice when she finally fell asleep. One moment the woman was still imagining, the other she was carried away in the tight clutches of deep slumber. She dreamt that she was there, in the Maltese Riviera, with _him_ – a sweet, naïve dream only a female like her would be able of conjuring… They were together, on some deserted shingly shore of a tiny bay encircled with tall pines, were standing together in water up to their waists; and Jop was happy and joyful, and she was trying to convince him to swim – she knew he still could not swim despite the fact he knew how to do many different things… Klara was smiling lightly in her sleep, the spectral feeling of her own happiness permeating the wonderful dream. She carefully helped him out of the warm, bright-azure, generously sun-dappled water of the boundless Mediterranean and draped a towel over his broad mighty shoulders, so very glad that he had agreed to stay in the water with her despite his initial fear of swimming. And then they just lay down onto their simple wooden lounges under a huge pine, the fresh scent of which gently calmed them both. They lay side by side, holding each other’s hands and gazing up at the hot, cheerful Maltese skies; and then he solemnly turned his head to her and said in that rough, hoarse, yet such an endearing voice of his: _«Hey babe. Say: will ya stay at me side foreva? Huh?..»_ And she answered, _«Yes, my soul, yes. I will. Forever. Without fail»._ At the sound of these words, Jop’s hollowed, skull-like face brightened immeasurably as he reached out to her, and a satisfied grin stretched his thin lips. _«Eh, ya know wot, beauty babe? Gonna protect yer any day o’ me life. Gonna make sure anyone who e’er touch yer brutal has da biscuit. Mean dis»._ She sighed happily, peacefully, lowering her head onto his firm chest, looking up at him with gratitude, and they lay quiet for a long, long time, and the gentle whispering of the pine branches and the muffled roar of the breakers accompanied their innocent bliss…

Miss Gaal dreamt of precisely the same Maltese coast she had imagined to herself, and at first, the dream was as beautiful as it got: the mildly warm sun, the pine-covered shingle shore, the wonderful conifer scent permeating the fresh Mediterranean air. But then, the sky in her dream became dark with rain clouds; the air grew very cold; the sea retreated from the shore, leaving slimy black mud in its wake. And in the same grim manner, her initial innocent hope was cruelly replaced with disenchantment, with bitter despair. And at that very moment, she felt clearly and acutely that her dream was never to be fulfilled.

... ... ...

…Suddenly, Klara woke up before the gloomy dawn, her silent rejoicing becoming replaced with mental torment as the peaceful rumble of the Maltese waves turned into the sorrowful pattering of raindrops against the murky window. There was no seashore, no pine-trees, no azure water – only the menacing black walls of the little cabin and the cast-over sky beyond the windowpane. And she felt hollow, felt utterly alone despite in fact not being alone, felt strange deep sadness welling up in her heart like a cold black wave making its powerful way onto a distant sunny shore. But she was tired and did not stay awake for long. Gradually her breathing evened out a little, and she quickly fell asleep again, beside the man she has tried so selflessly to make happy; and then she dreamt another dream.

In this dream, Klara was standing on some sort of a clifftop, directly below which there was a walled fort and a cramped courtyard dominated by a tall, ancient, bulky stone cross covered with intricate carvings. A staircase led through the low front gate into an empty, snow-swept churchyard flanked with thick walls and low buildings on both sides. From where she stood, a few old, time-worn graves were discernible in the middle, as well as the entrance to a small, sturdy stone-walled chapel or church squatting in the distance, with a short bulb-shaped belfry and modest, no-frills decor... It must have been some sort of a monastery, a cloister probably belonging to some mendicant order or other; but it was that very church that caught and held her closest attention. Something about that structure seemed especially menacing to her, ominous, baleful, foreboding. She acutely felt the heavy, coppery smell of blood somewhere in the sacred building, and in her dream she badly shuddered. Then, in a matter of seconds, the vision of this obscure, mountaintop monastery from outside changed to the inside of a dark, incapacious wooden box lined with old purple velvet and with a lattice screen in one wall covered with a panel. The chapel it was, then, - the inside of a confessional booth... Klara knew it a once - she had often been to such places in her other, previous life… There was no priest inside, but she caught a faint smell of incense, as if someone with a smoldering censer had been here just moments ago. And another smell – the smell of fresh blood, the tangy, heavy, terrible smell of blood she had felt earlier outside, and it was the most intense here, in the little, hot, stuffy space of the booth. She felt herself becoming presageful and terribly frightened. She would not be able to tell precisely what time of year it was in the dream; it could be either the late autumn or the dead of winter or the early spring. She knew only that now it was the beginning of October, and that she had never visited this particular place before, and that she was terribly worried - for Jopling. For him, yes, only for him, because… because why else would such a vision come to her if not that this very man, the man she loved more than anyone, was in some sort of impending danger?..

...And then Klara was wide awake once more. It had gotten light already, and the old clock she had brought to the suburbs of Lutz from her home village showed only four in the morning. The dream ended abruptly, and she opened her eyes, feeling as if having been smashed against a dark and misty wall – disoriented, uncertain, alarmed, breathing shallowly. She felt Jop’s evenly heaving torso pressed firmly to her back, and this managed to calm her down a little, but without much success. The woman lifted her head and squinted to look out the window, her face bathed in soft moonlight that streamed into the small room. Slowly this dim opalescent moonlight faded away, the silver radiance no longer painted the glass. Evidently the storm clouds, rolling out of the northwest since before midnight, had finally shrouded the moon, blocking the lunar glow. A deafening thunderclap reverberated in the distance, the sound slowly dying down. A northern wind from the high mountains had driven fresh snow clouds menacingly overhanging a small house.

After waking up from this bitter premonition, Miss Gaal realized she was stubbornly unwilling to go to sleep again. And even if she wanted to, the woman reasoned, she just would not be able to run the risk of seeing yet another disturbing, dispiriting dream… The weird inexplicable images still hang before her mind’s eye, and there remained only one chance for her to spend the last couple hours of the night – to cuddle closer to seemingly peacefully dozing Jopling and to try and think back to some cherished memory from their still not so long, but so bright time together… Thus she quickly and fondly recalled one of her first nights with him – despite countless times they had already spent in each other’s embrace, sometimes Klara still mentally relived her feelings, thoughts and emotions of that particular rendezvous.

 _«Oh, how on earth can I be so wanton, so unrestrained?.. But then, well, they teach then men at church and at home, not to think about_ that _, no to ever covet a woman, but then they meet us and forget what they’d been taught, and begin to want us, to desire, to try an’ get from us everything they want, to think about things which it is… it’s …_ bad _to even think about… But – to want_ him _, for me to want_ this _man, to want to be with him, in his arms, to be – how does he put it? –_ worshipped _by him, his bulk of a body over my own one, his muscular hands touching… exploring… parts of it which I myself try to be ashamed to explore… Oh my god, the esquire is so big, and hard, and solid, and soft all at the same time, and the tender warmth between us, between my legs, there below – oh, delicious warmth, tingling, pleasant, burning, welling up… the mild fire, the fiery tide inside of me, waxing and waning like the flame of a candle which he had put out just before... and my, my, is he_ broad _, so broad, that I don’t know how best to locate my legs, and his chest, and stomach, and belly, so big and solid against me, and warm; and he smells of gun oil and gunpowder, brandy and petrol and old leather… I’ve never been so close to a man, not to mention a man like that, so intimate, and realizing it makes me feel even more wanton, more delicious, more… Oh, but he is_ heavy _, is the esquire, hard and _heavy_ and bulky… how heavy, and how strong, his hands roaming up and down my sides, over my breasts, strong and sinewy and weighty, and he just rocks, rocks over me, inside me, back and forth, and his head is lowered down near my face, and I can sense his big, solid chest on top of mine, fine and white and silky, _everything _’s fine and silky, and I am so tight around him, so, so tight, and he’s big and trying not to crush me, his face is now over my breasts, and his eyes are motionless, clouded, pleasantly determined, his countenance concentrated only on the pleasure he’s receiving; he’s silent but for some occasional quiet, stifled moans – as if he doesn’t wish me to hear – and his breath noisy and hot, so hot, like steam, it makes my body shudder pleasantly once, twice, oh, the esquire is doing his best now, I guess, now his best ever, and I vaguely wonder if it’s really possible to be enjoying a man which is surely, certainly_ not _one’s ideal of a man, not tall and slim and elegant at all, but as it is, I enjoy him, just like now… And now I feel myself become slack and weak, I begin to lose control – or what’s still left of it – over my own body, and I don’t want to think about it, I just feel my hands clutch the small of his back, and yes, he’s so solid and soft and tender and rock-hard all at once, I can think of nothing and just_ feel _him, me,_ us _– yes,_ us _, because we are now_ one _,_ the _one, so different yet one and the same, united, as it should be, and was meant to be – for the two of us, for both of us meant to be, I now realize, - and I feel him as he feels me, perfectly, and I can feel my head… my head throwing back on the pillow, my neck stretching, the hair framing my face wet with sweat, and there is the ceiling of the room over me, and the edge of the headboard – but I can think of nothing else, I just feel myself shudder, as before, but stronger now, longer, feel myself contract under him, around him, and there’s his sweat on the skin of my breasts, but it’s all so improper, so unbecoming, to think about, just like when I had earlier used to think, to pretend, that it’s not a client over me, that I’m with some other man, better man – an_ ideal _man – but now_ he _is my ideal man, and to think about that is so amazing, exhilarating, unbecoming but delicious, I cannot help thinking about that, the esquire must sense it as well, for he is closer to me, closer, heavier, I can hardly breathe, and he’s hot and sweaty, as exhilarated as I am, but more so, ‘cause them men, gentlemen, they always enjoy it more than women, and then the ceiling just dissolves before my eyes, not instantly and not for long, and I feel my head spinning marvelously, as if I’m drunk a little – well, I_ am _, he has given me some of that light-green liquor to drink before beginning, that absinthe or whatever it was, but it’s not precisely like that, it’s way better, – and then there’s nothing around me, because I close my eyes without realizing it, and there’re only feelings left, and I feel suddenly liquid warmth start slowly welling up inside me, spilling into me, and I know it from before, and I might conceive from him, and then – all these horrible months they tell about, but for now it’s all unimportant, and he brings his lips down upon mine, rough and oily and delicious, all purposeful and feverish, and his tongue is in my mouth, exploring, that’s how a male kisses a female when they are like this, like we now, earnestly, hungrily, as if he’d die if he doesn’t taste me right now; and I answer him, encourage him, because I want to – I_ must _– make him happy, let him enjoy me, my body and lips, and it’s not just my body, because I must act as well, not to lie there like a log, but caress him and touch him, and kissing him back, and yes, he’s blissfully happy, I can sense it distinctly, and he keeps on kissing me, this special wet kiss of his, the Jopling kiss, and his jaw is massive and his cheeks bony and stubble-covered; I caress his face and feel his short stubbles and there’s warm sweat on his forehead, and his short unoiled hair is tousled, he moans into my mouth, my esquire, my defender, my man, I am his, his woman, forever his, and his back is sweaty, and I hug him stronger, and can feel a salty, faintly pungent smell around us, on us, vaguely resembling the gunpowder smell of his firearms which I remember from our shooting lessons, when he looks just so attractively in his persistence, and with his legs wide apart, and now he’s here with me, not in his usual gun-for-hire attire, in nothing but his rumpled nightclothes, but still a fine, strong, attractive gentleman, and I am no better, my nightgown brutally torn and ripped_ , _and lifted up and open at my chest and creased around my upper legs – all by him, of course – but it’s all right, really, I’m happy, I’m happy to be like that, and my head continues to spin slightly, and we just lie there on the bed, silent, satisfied, the thin threadbare blanket spread over us; I hope he is satisfied, more so than I, because he must be, he deserves it, not me, - I hope he_ is _satisfied, I did everything I could, everything that was possible for me, and he doesn’t even know what it’s cost me, and it’s dark in the room, with no light aglow, and a little dusty, and the bed is hot, its linens and pillows and all, and he has rolled off me and now rests on his right side, looking at me, smirking, his dear shadowed face slightly shining, and I feel sweaty, as well, my ruined clothes and face and chest, and his big heavy arm rests on my left thigh, then cups my left breast – he loves my breasts so very much – and he hugs me from behind, and I hear him breathing slowly, heavily, slightly whizzing, my man, my esquire, my darling, my dearest, and it’s the most pleasant, most anticipated sound of the night»._

... ... ...

The rest of the night was uneventful; the strong wind carried the threatening rain away into the south; and at last, the dawn broke slowly on the distant horizon, its pale grayish light hesitantly entering the little miserable dwelling. Finally, the deepest darkness of the frozen night began to dissipate, being slowly supplanted by grayish glow of the dawn. In the horizon, the sun began its heavenly ascend, its soft pale-pink light tenderly touching the little cabin’s window. Slowly, unwilling to leave her darling’s company if even for a while, Klara got up and drew away an old tattered curtain, letting the pale sun in, closing her eyes for a moment against its quickly brightening rays. She cracked open the window, and the fresh air from the forest at dawn broke into the dark, stuffy, dingy room, lightly swaying the short tattered curtains. The new day which was still to come promised to be comparatively sunny, with no trace of the heavy rainclouds shrouding the sky the night prior. The warm beams of morning light flooded the tiny cramped room, bathing its walls in the hues of amber and gold.

After a moment Klara heard the esquire stir under his quilt: sensing in his special uncanny manner that it was early morning already, he dutifully sat in the pillows, quickly rubbing his eyes in order to shake off the remnants of sleep. Then Jopling pulled on his black shortened trousers and got up, a bit unsteady but calm and businesslike as always – after all, he was used to frequent lack of sleep and many sleepless nights. Noiselessly thanks to his stockinged feet, he limped slowly (due to an old ski accident injury from one of his numerous chases) over to a small corner table on which stood an old oil lamp and a pitcher, poured some water into a glass and drank slowly. His manly, angular face was sharply outlined by the warm lamp glow which rendered it an even stronger, more attractive effect. Jopling turned to look at the young woman, the glass still in his hand and a lightly curious expression on his stern face. Klara moved away from the window, making her feet equally quiet, and went over to the esquire, lifting her hand and carefully touching his by now stubble-covered cheek.

 - Th-thank you, - she whispered tentatively, unsure of what his reaction might prove to be. Shy and quiet by nature, she still found it difficult at times to address the man straightforwardly.

Jopling looked back at her, his at first half-curious expression now turning to full-fledged quizzical. He swallowed hard.

 - Wot fer, babe? – He inquired in the same hoarse, grumbly voice she had come to love so dearly, along with everything else in him.

\- For… for staying with me. For being with me... Here.

The esquire put his glass back down onto the table, moved closer to her, and the pads of his rough, strong fingers came to rest on the either side of her face framed with dark, shoulder-length hair. Jopling smiled at her, and his smile was warm, disposing. Not that she did not love looking at him when smiling at all other moments of life, but to see him so sincerely joyful warmed her heart immensely.

\- Me soul... um... rests ‘ere with ya, – he admitted, immediately lowering his gaze. But after a few moments, his expression changed once again. He frowned, his sunken eyes staring into the space. Then he looked at the young woman, grinning crookedly, the grin she grew to admire and anticipate.

\- Ya drive me mad, girlie. Know dis yerself ?..

Klara smiled, visibly relieved.

\- Would you care for some tea? - She asked, hopeful.

\- Some tea, eh? – He grinned broader, enjoying the unfailingly melodious clarity of her young voice.

Jopling was very unpretentious, having no particular preferences in food, and gladly consumed everything Klara prepared for him. Now Miss Gaal brewed him a cup of nice fragrant herbal tea - the herbs, by the way, she had gathered in the adjacent wood. The man timidly made a sip from his cup, then another one and another, in a heartbeat, feeling his stress decreasing with every sip of the flavorful drink, his strength returning to him, and his mind calming down. Upon hearing the kind timid woman approach him, Jop lowered his gaze, looking absent-mindedly at a large slice of lemon in his cup – another one he was chewing right then, savoring its taste with praiseworthy bravery.

Finishing his tea until the last drop, Jop leaned back in enjoyment, closing his eyes, and Klara pressed to his right side, for a split second leaning her head against his solid chest – a subtle, gentle, pleasing movement. It lasted for only a second, not marked by any start or sudden movement of surprise, any restlessness or momentary agitation which at any other moment would by that special heat, slowly encapsulating their flesh, herald a start of a particularly hot lovemaking. Yet the fleeting touch of her soft cheeks and tender breasts against his skin was so soft, so tremulous, that he could not resist gently running his hand through her thick hair, as a sign of deep gratitude. At the feel of her fleeting touch, the esquire recalled that Klara had behaved almost precisely like this on the day he had received something precious from her, something invaluable – a gift she had intended to be a constant reminder of her love and care for _him_ , the worthless psycho murderer Jop had come to regard himself… The esquire closed his eyes, and that reminiscence effortlessly entered his current reality.

 _...It was a stifling midsummer evening, the evening of Jopling's birthday (alleged, honestly, because the man didn't remember the exact date). He had just got back home from a particularly exhausting expedition, and for some time_ _Klara did not dare interrupt his solitude, but then she remembered something. Walking up to the cupboard, she opened its slightly crooked door, cracked from dilapidation, and pulled out the gift in store for him._

 _\- Jop_ _?.. - She called out hesitantly. The lounging man_ _opened his eyes and turned to her, his short smooth hair lightly glittering in the lamplight which gave them a warm, almost honey-like hue, and looking at her  quizzically. She held up a small cut-glass vessel with a sterling-silver stopper, for which she had paid all her klübecks hard-earned over the last month, and smiled shyly. - This is for you._

 _He paused_ _, eyeing the glimmering glass in her hand with mild curiosity._

 _-_ _Fer me. – It finally escaped him hoarsely. - Babe... Me flattered._

 _He got up,_ _walked up to her, embracing her slender figure, giving her an intent oily look, then took the little flask from her hands and ran his fingers over the thick faceted surface that seemed to sparkle like precious jewellery in the faint, feverish glow of an oil lamp. Then he growled curtly:_

 _-_ Very _nice_ _. Must ‘ave spent… all yer savings... on dis... Oh God._

 _-_ _…Not even all... - Klara beamed gently, stretching her neck to kiss him. - I just wanted you to keep this... always on you... Close to your heart..._

 _-_ _Yeah. - His voice sounded even more raucous than ever. - Babe, yeah._ _Fer sure._

 _She_ _beamed._

 _-_ _I wanted it to be... well... A kind of talisman. To protect you. - She lowered her gaze and blushed, slightly ashamed for no reason. - Well,_ _I’m such a numbskull, then, aren’t I?.._

 _Jopling_ _grinned scarily, but his eyes were warm, grateful._

_\- Ain’ deserve it, darlin’. How can me thank yer?.. Gonna be yer ardent an' eager slave. - He grinned in delight._

_\- Surely you know how... - Klara squinted slyly, drinking in what he said to her with evident pleasure. - Stay with me. Be careful. For my sake. That’s all. It’s so simple, no?.._

_When_ _, as had become her habit during their rendezvous, she turned to look out the window to make sure that none suspicious lurked near the house, Jop shook his head, grinning to himself in disbelief. Did this girl really believe that a cut-glass flask would be a sort of talisman, an amulet, to protect him from gunshots? For sure it would only fly to bits, should a bullet hit him in the chest. But for the sake of Klara, for the sake of her faith in him and in their destiny, he would keep her present. He would always carry it on himself. Until his last breath._

...At last, the esquire got up and reached for his coat. It was really marvelous to remain here, in the care of the sweet girl Klara, but his sole and most faithful devotion was indisputably his job, and he just could not let it be any other way.

\- Need t’go, babe. – His voice was brusque and business-like. – Really so. Ehm… An assignment, that’s it… A trip... Jus’ another one…

Klara’s instant reaction was to look at him in surprise, almost alarm. To go away… So early… Why not stay here with her for another day or two?.. But then she only nodded silently, daring not to ask him where he would be heading and for how long, because she believed that if she did not get to know this, she would not have to wait for him sleeplessly, counting days and hours until his arrival, and then he would certainly return to her again. Despite still slightly fearing Jopling’s evident psychopathic traits, she knew he was really quite predictable. Thus she tenderly cupped his face in her palms, speaking in a measured, calm voice in which nevertheless a barely suppressed excitement could be discerned.

\- Jop… - She gingerly addressed the man by that shy, naïve nickname she had recently invented for him. – Erm, Joppie, I… I just... I just want you to know. To listen. To be sure that… that I… I shall not stop loving you... Yes, I mean it, I shall not…You are the only man who stayed at my side, despite the person I am, despite the person you are... – She caressed his hollow cheeks with her soft fingertips. – My love for you, it’s… it’s the only thing I have. _You_ can go away – _and_ you are likely to go away _much_ earlier than me – _but_ my love for you will keep on living... deep inside my heart... where no one will ever snatch it from.

Before leaving for work, the now fully dressed esquire leaned over the woman one last time, instinctively closing his eyes, so as to assure her that he would come back. For one moment only, his face was just about her softly straight, shoulder-length chestnut hair, and the esquire could distinctly feel its mild and simple, but all the same unique and dizzying fragrance, which made a slight, delighted smirk appear on his thin lips. Briefly, he caught a dull veiled gleam of a melancholy solemnity in her dark eyes – they were large and restless eyes despite the false calmness she tried to feign in them, their beauty enhanced by a dark, enigmatic glow which a rough, crude, hard-hearted man like Jop was unable to comprehend. He could see she was frowning, small delicate lines appearing above her sharp black eyebrows. But Jopling did not give the woman a goodbye kiss, knowing full well that if he did, he would not be able to hold back the deep yearning lurking inside him, to stop himself from letting that special liquid fire flare up in him again, and would go all the way down to another round of lovemaking with her – which would in turn mean staying here for another day or two, under the woman’s potent charm which he was totally unable to explain. It was a wholly unexpected aspect of his by no means dull and ordinary life, an aspect which consisted of tenderness and devotion amidst the days and nights full of blood and brutality, and which he was extremely wary to embrace given the highly dangerous – nay, outright precarious – nature of his very existence. He liked his everyday life, and he understood well that if he were ever to give in to any feelings of such nature as the ones _she_ held for him, he would need to change his routine completely, to start caring about another person – a task which he had no aptitude for and which would require condescending attentiveness instead of his habitual dastardly audacity. He would have never told Klara that his sudden enchantment with her, his burning fervor, his senseless ardor were making him in turns uneasy, weak-minded, amused by, terrified of, ashamed with, or angry at himself, because he had learned long ago to perfectly master his emotions, hiding them under a stoic calmness which was in parts inborn and practiced. He was just unwilling to dwell on the said emotions at any length, especially if they most surely did not promise any fateful consequences or suchlike at all. And anyway, such feelings would be forever unattainable to a grisly, loathsome man like him, even if he preferred to proudly call himself an “esquire”, to look at himself as an unsurpassed inquiry agent. He was never ready to express himself openly and never wished to do so, justly (he hoped) perceiving it as a sign of weakness to which he, a hired gun at work and at soul, just could not allow himself to give in. He always steadfastly refused to acknowledge that there still remained some human feelings in him, more than just basic needs of material pleasures and basic survival. He was clearly and decidedly no match for a girl like Klara. So, let her remain only a source of tasty food and nightly fun; let her not become a person completely dependent on someone likely to perish at any day, leaving this sweet innocent girl inconsolable with grief while she had better enjoy the simple joys of her life.

Klara felt his hot, uncertain breath on the top of her head and stood still, not knowing what to make of it but being relatively sure that this meant only one thing: he was leaving again, and his decision was not to be disputed. His cast-iron fingers slowly caressed her elegant neck, their short blunt nails scratching her skin ever so slightly. She knew well that he was not going to kiss her – he very rarely kissed her at all, even in the heat of passion, preferring roughness and calmness instead. Yet the feeling of him standing right in front of her, over her, the tiny waves of his breath washing over her head and his rigid leather clothing getting into rustling contact with hers, was so very cozy, so peaceful and soothing despite the man's personality. Her slender, ringless hands lifted tentatively as she stroked his hollow cheeks and then his back, marveling at its hard rolling muscles. The warm, selfless affection she was nurturing in her blood since meeting Jop grew stronger at this minute, and she felt their sublime yet forceful bond growing stronger still – the same bond which would always let her know when the esquire would be on some dangerous mission or other, all alone, under a heavy rain or stinging snow; or when he would be returning home, entering it with his customary confident bearing, eagerly awaiting her warmth and caresses and food she had gladly prepared for him, for subservience to a man like this seemed to her quite natural and utterly enjoyable. She remembered the scars that adorned Jopling’s body more clearly than ever before, and suddenly everything was clear to her, perfectly clear, dreadfully clear. One particular thought pierced her heart painfully, like the thin blade of a stiletto. She realized with unsettling certainty that he was not at all invulnerable; that many a time had he been on the grim verge of death; and that, more important, at any moment she might lose him, that he could become forever unattainable, dreadfully far away for her to ever again see her fearless Jop. Oh, how foolish of her not to have thought of it before, before she ever met him. But there was no way back now; only the way ahead, whatever may be laying in wait for them there.

It all seemed to last only a second altogether, but in fact, they stood like that for several minutes. Then the esquire sighed and moved away.

\- Well, sweet babe, time t’ go, eh. - He announced curtly, matter-of-factly, in his subtle Canadian accent, letting his lips stretch into a slight crooked smirk that seemed to Klara so attractive. – Goodbye… _Meine_ _Claire_.

He turned around on his heels and exited the cabin in several long, determined strides, without ever noticing how her facial features changed momentarily with an expression of resigned disappointment.

\- Wish you well… Mister Jopling, um... Sweet Jop. - Klara whispered behind his back, though he barely heard her.

She stood in place, watching him leaving. Yes, he _was_ fearless, _was_ courageous, but his courage stemmed from the fact that he had really nothing to lose and thus nothing to fear, and it was therefore a kind of selfish, twisted courage which led only to others’ suffer and death. Jop strongly despised death, perceiving it with a confident, slightly debonair calmness and being ready to meet it at any time of life. He worked for money which could buy him the simplest and roughest pleasures, the pleasures of the flesh; he did what he was told to do and felt no remorse about the things he had done; he lived in the current day, and cared not what would happen to him in the day to come; he needed not anyone’s compassion, needed not anyone’s love – not even _her_ love; and so, he was mentally ready to perish at any moment. Klara knew this, felt this – and, even while knowing and feeling this, she was still afraid for him and unwilling to let him go. The image of the sparkling celestial tear, the solitary star over the wooden cabin, entered her mind again, with a strange, bodeful certainty, for a moment turning her insides into an icy void; and it was at that precise moment that she realized, with dull inexplicable fright and deep, heretofore unknown sadness, that all her quiet, selfless toil of love would actually prove in vain, that she probably would not see her fearless Jop ever again.

With her kind, generous, sympathetic heart Miss Gaal perceived that this grisly, sullen man had certain hidden qualities which stubbornly escaped a superficial glance and came to light only faced with the help of deep, selfless affection. She sensed that he had his own spiritual needs, a need to be understood, to be loved; there was no reason to be afraid of him, after all, for in essence he was the same man as any other – tender, uncertain, faltering, insecure. She hoped that one day, he would show his soul to her, formerly a complete stranger who of all people welcomed him and took him for who he was. She did not know much about him, not even what his occupation really was, but from what he had told her, she was sure that he was doing something extremely dangerous and was going to act incredibly bravely. She knew that Jopling had not even received any proper education, his schooling having been only elementary, and that at one point in his thirties, he had (to put it in his own words) copped a short dose; and that everything the man ever acquired in life he had earned with his own toil, brutality, sharpness and ingenuity. He was indubitably someone’s son, someone’s brother, maybe given his promiscuous lifestyle, even someone’s father, although he never spoke about his family and, indeed, seemed quite uncomfortable with that subject. But everything in him, even his mere name always instilled some previously unknown desire into her – that proud and threatening, harsh and distant name… And had not even told her his first name - only the initials, as would be customary in his overseas homeland!.. All in all, Klara felt that this man was not keen on expressing his emotions openly, because his stoicism had become a firmly established part of his personality if not its essence, and certainly could not be laid aside now. Like many simple, young, naïve women, she dreamed often after meeting Jop of how she would marry him one day, how he would become her rightful second half… Strangely, Klara’s yet another innocent dream about her imagined future with Jop somehow currently brought to mind only one particular scene, lively and clear: their wedding, humble and unsophisticated; she, already in late pregnancy, and he, sporting a large black eye after some recent clash. It was outright silly, she knew that; he was most certainly never going to agree to a marriage; and yet, this stupid idea held to her an unusually potent appeal.

The terrible inner loneliness Klara had felt in the night only intensified with the arrival of morning, which proved to be grey and chilly and almost devoid of sunlight. Hardly had the young woman thrown some merrily crackling firewood into a small stove in an attempt to warm up, when she heard the aggressively loud revving of Jopling’s motorbike which had been parked beside a mighty courtyard oak. Collecting the remaining kindle which was still wet from yesterday’s rain, Klara threw them unceremoniously into a can and returned to Jop’s bedroom. She stood by the window, watching her false-fanged “sweetie” irreversibly dwindling into the distance and vaguely wondering if the day to come would turn out to be just like the day past, or, in fact, if it would prove to be entirely different. Life had long taught her that however much you might hope for something, the fate would unfailingly and cruelly intervene on its own behalf, changing the course of events for its own twisted, chaotic, completely incomprehensible needs, crushing and sweeping aside the seemingly unbreakable rules which pretended to reign over this world. That’s why no one was ever able to predict what awaited them in the day to come, the only certain thing in one’s life being the fact that everyone was always and unfailingly at the Fate’s merciless mercy. These were the thoughts that filled Klara’s turbulent mind at this early hour, right  after the esquire’s departure. Complete silence drowned out the little cabin once again, a silence which seemed to reign over the place, turning it into some sort of perpetual limbo where nothing happened and time was not rushing forward but flowing in a non-ending circle, terribly slowly. Everything at the shabby woodland cabin was again as it has been for a long time before and would most probably remain a long time after that. It seemed to Klara that after he beloved was gone, the life lost some of its obvious meaning and necessary contents, that all meaningful events in her life were left for ever somewhere below a distant horizon, an imagined faraway line over which no figurative sun would rise or go down anymore. And the next several days surely promised to prove this dreary thought, as there was nothing else of importance in the young woman’s life, no brilliant events that are commonly believed to be reserved for the young and healthy and attractive. It was Jop to whom she had recently paid almost all of her attention, and she felt all right with t even if sometimes she received no communication from him for as long as a week. For some still incomprehensible reason, this grisly man had truly become part and parcel of her life, her personality, her very fate – and what was to become to her if this part one day disappeared?.. Was there, she asked herself, was there really any likelihood of him ever coming back again?..

... ... ...

J. G. Jopling, Esquire left his home as he had always left the dwellings of the persons he had interrogated – coolly indifferent, without a gesture or a backward glance, his blood flowing perfectly calmly once again. Yet now, his composure was in fact artificial. At other times, he bore himself like this in order not to keep any compunctions about the sins committed from entering his soul; he knew that if he turned around, he would see Klara’s worried face and a sad glint of her eyes and walk back, but he could not do this. Instead, he spared the woman from giving him further admonitions and left it at that, letting the omniscient Fate once again tear them from each other, for God only knew how long.

Before mounting his faithful BMW motorbike and driving away he stopped to look up at the sky, trying to determine what the weather would be like for the day. The star which had twinkled and trembled in the clouds, which had caught his usually indifferent gaze the previous evening, was no longer there, no longer shone over the gloomy trees of the forest. He frowned, for several moments trying to recall its location and failing to do so. Somehow this faraway celestial lantern brought strange, uneasy feelings to him. Perhaps it was there, around that star that a water-covered planet, on which he had seen himself in a recent uncanny dream, a gruesome nightmare hung in the pitch-black abyss... He did not tell Klara about that nightmare of his, especially seeing that the fact of his departure had worried her deeply, and thus believing it would only trouble her more... A long road once again awaited him, a new journey which was very much likely to extend over the whole week; therefore reflecting on stupid dreams was certainly not part of his plans.

He mechanically ran his fingers over his generously scarred brow, as if to push away an oppressive weight under its surface which dimmed his understanding; sighing exhaustedly, he tried to battle an incessant dull ringing in his head which came out of nowhere and silently plagued him the whole morning. That particular dream of his was so uncharacteristic, so weird. But however much he tried to purge it out of his tired mind, it seemed that it just would not budge. Yet despite the absurdity of the nightmare he found it, for some reason, strangely attractive, inviting, even addictive, not having an idea where he may have been receiving these images from. Although the shroud of sleep had swiftly left him in the morning, he could still recall its every last detail.

 _...He dreamt of water, though that was not the smooth water of the Mediterranean magnificence Klara had told him so much about – the one encased in the sparkling streams of lights on its glorious shores, in tall fragrant pines, distant mist-veiled hills and deep fragrant valleys, in scattered bright villas and wide gardens and purple sunset skies of some glamorous resort, where the blue and azure sea glimmered here and there beyond the round shapes of shrubs, faint trembling lights shining out on it, and the monotonous, murmuring sing-song of its distant breakers to be heard from the distance. No,_ this _was nothing like that. He_ _dreamt that he was standing alone in the middle of a seemingly endless ocean, in a cold, insipid and odorless expanse of shallow water reaching up to his knees and rippling gently on all sides around him, its sound completely lost in eerie utter silence. He stood surrounded by nothing but the leaden weight of water under the vast sunless, colorless heavens which seemed to be made of lead, which stretched all the way to the distant skyline. In addition, there were heavy clouds made of ice which floated over the gigantic mass of that same grey water, brought forth by an incessant wind. He had not the slightest idea of what this place was and how he actually got there. It seemed to be not at all the earth he knew, the world he lived in, but quite another world, another planet, terribly distant and unattainable for a mere mortal like him; a planet on which he was in utter solitude, the only person in this spiritless realm where time itself did not flow in the same manner as it did in_ his _world_ _, instead resembling a viscous, unwieldy mass capable of turning any living creature into a mere bug forever trapped in amber._

 _All of a sudden_ _a very huge, incredibly enormous, downright gigantic wave emerged far ahead, menacingly facing him like a mountain composed of sheer water, a solid menacing wall of water rising before him, advancing on him agonizingly slowly but inexorably, threatening to sweep away everything in its mighty path. With a brusque movement, he tried to turn around and run, run for his life, if only to escape the terrible surf. But his body obeyed to him no more, his movements were badly slowed down by the air and the water which both felt like a thick viscous jelly. It seemed that nothing more would ever happen here, in the midst of this lifeless aquatic nightmare, and only these giant mountainous waves would go on following one another with their deafening roar, right up until the moment when this damn water evaporated without trace and the ground it covered would itself turn to dust. Upon this fazed realization and totally out of character, he nearly moaned a slurred, desperate prayer out loud into the high, silent, leaden skies, pleading the unknown god of this horrible planet to do just that, to pulverize this hateful, wretched place right now, once and for all._

 _A terribly oppressive_ _feeling overcame him as he thought that somewhere far, incredibly far away from here the_ genuine _life was rushing and seething at this very moment, the infinite chain of intertwined events was endlessly weaving, and all the while_ here _existed nothing except for these lazily, endlessly rolling water mountains which_ _permanently_ _arose_ _on one horizon_ _and vanished below another_ _._ Here _all the events – maybe engulfing as much as hundreds of years – were left below the leaden horizon, drowned in vast darkness, forever off-limits. Here everything that any man held precious and important possessed no value, no meaning whatever, having simply ceased to exist or indeed having never existed at all. Dull, inexpressible melancholy seeped into his heart at the_ _depressing thought_ _that he must have passed the point of no return, that the fate befalling any grave sinner after death would most certainly look just like this: a realm where time stood still and where ruled an eternal, unforgiving ocean without a single patch of land – a world forever punished with its own Deluge for some horrible sins of its vanished inhabitants and turned into an endless nothingness utterly devoid of light, future and hope. Even the strongest wind would be unable to either slice or break or extinguish these menacing perpetual waves, indifferent yet clearly hostile; the waves of the pitiless destiny, the inanimate requital that after millions of years would be relentlessly driving these huge masses of water in the same direction just like it did millions of years before._

_In the end of the dream he caught a glimpse of poor Klara _standing, just like him,_ somewhere in the distance; though despite his frantic attempts the alarmed esquire was completely unable to reach for her as the ocean seemed to hold then both in place, tight like tar. And then the first gigantic freak wave stretching from horizon to horizon broke over him, over them both with a tumultuous roaring, engulfing them and separating further from each other. And then it was no longer a wave but an enormous avalanche rolling down from a high, snow-capped mountain; dry icy vapor doused him with its cold breath, and pieces of ice fell onto his head in a sharp-bladed shower, their glassy shards cutting at him with an impossible force. Suddenly the black door of his reality was pushed back open, and the esquire was forcibly expelled through it back onto his hard mattress in his own dark bedroom. He woke up, his large fists clutching the damp linens for dear life, his heart hammering so loud that for a moment he feared Klara would for sure hear its frenzied beating. He was breathing shallowly, not certain what was worse – the nightmare just ended of the natural forces as violent as they were blind, or the real life that returned, dark and dreary and full of mindless violence he was an integral part of. The nightmare looked and felt so awfully realistic that in the end of it Jop nearly broke in bitter tears, ashamed of himself and believing he did lost the unfortunate girl for good and all. Yet he neither wished nor intended to further reflect on this absurd dream, instead forcing an ironic smirk onto his dry lips. Indeed, it was only a dream, an incredibly nasty one but still a dream, dull and ethereal like all others, having been instantly blown away at the first breath of reality._

…Despite his skeptical smirk, the man was still ruminating on those worrying images as he rode decisively atop his huge motorbike, driving ever on. The morning road, drenched in cold autumn sunlight, was entirely deserted, and Jopling’s motorcycle was the only vehicle rushing alongside it at this early hour. The roar of the engine was eerily distinct in the clear, crisp air suffused with the fragrance of late-year herbs. But the farther away he was heading, the more he was thinking about Klara, this sweet and gullible former farm girl evidently head over heels in love with the esquire and dead determined on trying to reform him. He had to confess he did indeed perceive her differently from all the other females he had ever encountered. She cared about him like no one else, like not even his long-abandoned family – cared stubbornly, selflessly, gratuitously, with incomprehensible determination entirely unfamiliar to him. And to think that at first, Jopling did not feel any real love for Klara, seeing in her only a kind, helpful, good-hearted, complaisant person who would prove useful to him in many respects, a kind, helpful, trouble-free girl, with whose help he would always procure a square meal, and in whose caresses would enjoy sleeping. He was clever enough to understand this simple truth. He was the one to own rather than cherish and love – at best he would confess he did love the excellent food she cooked, the caresses she showered him with. But did she really think she was going to succeed in her self-assigned task of humanizing _him,_ a ruthless cold-blooded savage?..

... ... ...

At the start of his employment with the Count von Lutz, Jopling made sure right away that he would receive his award in advance at all times, and His Excellency, obviously not feeling at ease with the imposing and menacing Inquiry Agent, had half-heartedly agreed, even though he would clearly prefer to pay him only after the work was done. After all, His Excellence was his employer, one of a dozen of them, and nothing more. Therefore, the esquire was essentially his own master and could afford almost anything his simple needs and occupation demanded. And so, now Jopling was free to spend his honest living precisely as he wished, to finish his work-free evenings at his own discretion, which usually meant frequenting a bar or a brothel. In fact, a whole lot of streetwalkers would gladly lie under Jopling, widely known among their ranks by a number of scary yet suggestive nicknames – Jack of Skulls, Iron Fist, Death’s Esquire and Bloody Butcher. But he was rather selective in his preferences and did not grant his attention to any first lass he came across. It had actually been at such a lowly place that he had met the woman currently waiting for him at the edge of the forest… He remembered the particular episode which finally brought him and Klara truly together, and his innards burned with pleasant tingling flame at the memory.

 _…After doing away_ _with yet another one of his hapless victims and leaving the profusely bleeding body behind a graveyard staff room, where Lutz Police Militia – the Grey Foxes, as they were dubbed by the locals – were not likely to find the corpse until at least the next month, Jopling takes a long final swig from his “mickey” and without a helmet, inebriated, drives rapidly away. Having settled up his affairs for the day, he is eagerly anticipating yet another stunning night. Just before the downpour begins, he arrives at a seedy backstreet hookshop someplace in the notorious Aschbrücken Quarter, one of the many of its kind kept by his good acquaintance Tanya Vychovsky, an immigrant from Slovakia and the mighty ringleader of the lucrative bordellos of the whole area._ _Known in certain circles simply and affectionately as "Mommy”, Tatyana rules over an extensive network of whorehouses across the country, many of which Jop likes to drop in from time to time, with a truly iron hand._

 _The building is almost completely shrouded in thick, velvety dusk. The approaching motorbike accelerates, whining in the darkness. A bright headlight pops into view from the narrow alleyway. The sleek, menacing vehicle emerges with a roar, zig-zagging onto the rain-slicked road. It slides across the gravel and rips to a stop in front of the lowly establishment, behind which the suburbs melt gradually into tiny hamlets and old windmills. At the entrance, beside a tiny bar designed to grant the customers additional warm-up for their further enjoyment, Jopling is met by the ringleader herself, who is intently eyeing him, her dark-green eyes glinting with shameless lust. Today he does not intend to spend his precious time and effort on this woman of all people, but Madame Vychovsky is clearly intent on keeping him to herself. She_ is _pretty, he gives her that, unlike most of the local chicks, and perfectly aware of her own sexiness._

_\- Weeell Jopling, ol' boy… Seems you ain’t going get off easily this night... – The woman cheekily proclaims, moving her lush hip invitingly, her purring voice husky from beer and cigarettes. Then, without any explanation, she throws her arms around him and slides her tongue into his mouth, her deep offensive kiss tasting of cheap, strong tobacco. At first he is stunned by her rash assault and stands motionless in place. But then, a mental image of his girlfriend – nice, bright, pure, surely waiting for him indoors at this very moment – flares up before his eyes; and he is instantly succumbed to a fit of wild hatred towards the depraved Tatyana. Swinging his heavy brass-knuckled fist, he throws the woman away with one powerful blow, scowling in disgust. She is slammed into the wall, clearly out; then quickly comes to, coughing, and looks at the man with mock disappointment, already without a single trace of desire in her hazed eyes._

_– Woteva da fuck yer talkin’ aboot… Me neither Roman Phipps nor Wolfgang Schmidt, yer stupid broad. - He sullenly growls, mentioning two other renowned Lutz inquiry agents and this establishment’s favourable patrons. - Gerrouta me way. Dis ain' gonna work with_ me _, - He adds quietly, marking his physical and mental victory over the woman with these rough, weighty, precise words. Adjusting his heavy creaky overcoat, he casts her one last fierce look and strides determinedly further into the gloomy house where faraway voices shout and echo eerily. Nowadays, when he spends more and more time with Klara Gaal, even the thought of turning for pleasure to other women seems to him a kind of betrayal, although for sure his favourite girl is neither his wife nor his mistress in a general sense of the word._

_Inside the esquire promptly finds this young, but already sufficiently experienced girl who knows the ropes well and is lustful enough for his tastes. Calm and composed in the face of the pleasures that are awaiting him, Jop takes off his riding goggles, leather gloves and heavy coat, and then pulls his faithful strumpet into an iron embrace, so very strong and attractive he is... She gladly leads him into a small, backside wood-paneled room lit with a dim orange glow of an oil-lamp, where he starts the fun by tearing off the girl’s blouse and skirt and slams her into a wall, kissing and biting her rudely, viciously, certainly possessing no knowledge of how to caress a woman properly and being able only to hold her tightly, in a vice grip which she seems to enjoy almost as much as he does. His arms are very strong, making him capable of inadvertently causing much pain, but it doesn’t worry her. In fact, he does not have a good idea of how to please a woman, but not one of them really minds it because they are attracted by his physical qualities and nothing more... They quite sincerely love his strength, his power, only longing for his body regardless of the sort of man he is. And as for him – well, he always aspires to own these women without sharing any feelings with them._

_Then he drags the young harlot to the bed and brings her down onto the cheap linens, hastily ridding her of her fine, elaborate underwear and quickly stripping himself. He takes off his trophy_   _skull-shaped knuckledusters,_ _with which he has beat the living shit out of the most intractable_ _questioned sookie darts (and which she sometimes lets him leave on, to intensify the fun), only as an afterthought, laying them on a rickety nighttable beside his other weapons - a knife and a Luger-Parabellum pistol. His eyes glimmer with grim, austere determination as he proceeds to mount her, and she is moaning, seemingly enjoying his strength and persuasiveness but at the same time shyly soothing him, caressing him almost lovingly and carefully kissing a large old bullet scar on his right shoulder. She knows it with her heart that this man is in great need of being loved, that he'd received so little love in his hard, bitter life. Her tender, obliging treatment and evident sympathy makes him likewise try to be gentler with her, tenderer, unlike all the other girls he’s ever been with. She does not know about his horrible deeds and is not repulsed by his ghastly appearance. He is her favorite, because she has no one else in this merciless world and possesses no skills other than these; and the brave, strong, solid Jopling is, in a sense, her only light and hope, her adoration, however naïve that would seem to be._

 _While a terrible downpour mercilessly drowns_ _the_ _dreary old buildings, crashes down onto the stone blocks_ _and hungrily devours the quiet city outskirts beyond the walls of the dirty establishment, Jopling moves over the girl rapidly, ruthlessly,_ _likewise devouring her with his rough thin lips, takes a long time slamming into her. The woman’s head bounces on the pillow, and he clutches her tightly in his strong, steel-hard arms, the gaze of his cold psychopathic eyes not wandering away from her blush-enlivened countenance. His angular stony face_ _is sharply outlined by the glow of the lamp rendering it a strong, attractive effect._ _His heavy muscular body glistens dimly with sweat, and there are knife and bullet scars scattered on his pale skin, both deep and shallow ones, as well as several faded sloppy tattoos on his arms and chest and between his shoulderblades._ _The largest one, on the left side_ _of his chest, depicts a sinister-looking human skull pierced with stylets – he never tells her what it means, but the way it flexes finely in unison with his muscles downright fascinates the girl. “Eh, ’tis a good job, babe… a helluva good job…” - he breathes to her, panting heavily_ _. And in the heat of his rough, animalistic passion, when he’s already lost to the reeling, intoxicating sensation which tells him he’s almost there, almost at his peak, he remembers the morning encounter in the Count’s library, and he reaches his final, to his shame suddenly imagining in the place of this lowly strumpet quite another woman – the young pretty wife of his boss the Count… Oh, certainly 'tis must be so mean of him; he's managed to fight off the ringleader's solicitation and yet can't make himself stop thinking of Her Honourable Excellence; but he just can't help it..._ _Of course, of course_ this _girl is so very_ _good, she loves him for some forever unknown, entirely unfathomable reason, cares about him, often bandages his occasional wounds, and all; but certainly she is not to be compared with the graceful Countess – and he’s never been with_ real _ladies, that was the problem, he_ _could not even begin to dream of such a possibility…_

Nonetheless, the reminiscence somewhat lifted his spirits, and the last several miles left till his destination J. G. Jopling rode with a slight contented grin frozen upon his thin chapped lips. Oh yes, it must have been on that very night that the girl had realized her destiny was to remain at the esquire’s side, just as he had become aware of the fact that however much he would wish for the opposite, his own destiny after all only lay with her... Try as he might, he would never forget that little revelation.

... ... ...

 

...To be continued with Chapter 3, "The Beginning of the End"


	3. The Hours of Horror (Extract One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The darkest, most sinful bit yours truly has posted thus far. 
> 
> Warning: intimidation, alcohol, violence, rough sex, male dominance.

_1931\. Late winter. Somewhere_ _on the outskirts of_ _Lutz_ _._

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…The shabby rickety bed of an ordinary brothel room creaks under his weight as the fearsome inquiry agent leans back onto a grey pillow and idly, casually reaches for his flask – a simple, stainless-steel, leather-clad flask containing some strong drink or another. Mr. Jopling takes a hearty, gurgling swig, the liquid splashing audibly in the vessel as he holds it to his lips, all the while not taking the gaze of his cold, determined eyes off the young whore, this Klara-something, defensively curled up in the corner of the stained bed and fearfully shrouding herself in the cheap bedcovers. There is a strange, uncustomary expression on her pale face, unlike those that all the other girls he’s ever fucked wore in his presence. This girl looks at the man with deep fear alright, fear and tiredness from having served him in different abominable ways for many hours of that long night. But there is something else in her large, tired hazel eyes, something totally different from the look of all those other broads. This girl, he perceives, is eyeing him with a strange, uncanny mixture of trepidation and hope, apprehension and interest, fright and pity. An uneasy notion strikes him at this moment: he thinks that the girl is watching him, evaluating him, calculating his every movement. Nonsense, utter nonsense… How can she? A common fuckin’ harlot she is, nothing more, and so poignantly defenseless, at that… But still, he must do something about this after all, must he not?

Vaguely surprised, Jopling stretches his left arm and sets his flask back onto the nighttable with a clank, not taking his grim gaze off the scared lassie before him and intently regarding her lithe, flimsy form.

– So, we tried t’ struggle, eh? - He growls slowly at last, ominous disapproval appearing in his low, measured, husky voice. – Tried t’ fight me off, ya dumb strumpet… Mind ya, absolutely love da girls who struggle. So much more fun… D’yer have an idea wha’ Joplin’ does t’ those who try defendin’? Huh?..

The fierce hitman calmly grabs his faithful stiletto from the table, firmly holding its wooden handle in his large palm and emphatically raising it before her generously made-up, wide-open eyes, its long thin blade glimmering dully in the light of a dying kerosene-lamp. The girl trembles, as if the winter cold from outside the bawdy-house seeped into her svelte body, but remains silent, still glaring at her grim cutthroat of a client defiantly. Why doesn’t he just leave, leave for heaven’s sake?.. It's been hours since this tormentor came in here...

– Ya know, - he continues unabashedly, his dry persistent voice scraping at her very soul, - some of ‘em little bitches me shagged – useta keep weapons on their tables… close t’ ‘emselves… Damn, a couple shrews e’en tried t’ get at me when I’d get ‘specially rough…

Mr. Jopling darkly chuckles, casually pointing the tip of his stiletto at a shallow scar below his left collarbone.

– See, ‘tis one of their marks, - he explains, looking at the girl solemnly, enjoying indescribable pleasure at how scared he keeps her. – But that stupid cunt who left me dis, she got _way_   more of ‘em on ‘er fer such behavior…

The sullen man pauses before continuing, the look in his merciless grey-blue eyes becoming one of psychotic determination, the meagre light casting deep shadows on his stern, hollow mug.

– See how well-honed da blade is? – He slowly brandishes the long, thin weapon in the air, its terrifyingly sharp edge flashing in the dim lamplight. – An’ mark me word, sweet girl: should yer try da same with me, Joplin’s gonna show yer jus’ how nice dis pretty little stylet feels... on yer splendid breast!..

The thug gives a short guffaw, immensely pleased with himself, a crooked smile never leaving his chapped thin lips. He is in no hurry at all and calmly bides his time, outright enjoying these exciting moments.

Bad shudders shake the poor Klara’s body as she realizes that never during this night has she been so terribly afraid of the man as she is now. Jopling’s heavy words pierce her as painfully as would the point of his cold, threatening weapon. Her long, chestnut, disheveled hair, which she usually makes into a bun or a plait, now hangs loosely over her flushed face, tangling before her alarmed hazel eyes. Her heart pounds quicker as she watches the frightful gangster’s broad chest heaving with every calm breath he draws, its thin hairs and the faded ink lines of his weird skull-shaped tattoo moving subtly as hard muscles roll under his pale skin, and his mighty ribs go slowly up and down in unison with his deep breathing. His eyes are vacant, unemotional, as if his soul has just left him forever and there is only this powerful body, this empty shell that remains here in the gloomy room with her. His mouth is ajar and his dimly glimmering fangs baring, which gives the ferocious esquire even more beastly a look.

– I… I… I’m t-t-terribly sorry, S-sir… - She mutters gingerly, losing all will to resist. She resignedly lowers her gaze to escape the dull glint of this brutal psycho’s eyes, resting it instead on a large bruise forming on her right breast – one of the many reminders of this man’s fierceness which are no doubt going to stay on her skin for a week or more.

As if to make things worse, in the ensuing heavy silence pregnant no doubt with more fun for Jop and more violence for his hapless hooker, the nighttable lamp flickers briefly and goes off, leaving the pair in darkness. Klara whimpers pathetically – she just can’t help it anymore; scalding tears flow down her flushed cheeks, daubing them with her mascara, as the esquire addresses her again, grinning with pleasure at her fright and submissiveness. Thankfully, she tells herself mentally, now she doesn’t have to look at his face and is certainly able to endure the horrors to come with newly acquired bravery…

– Good girl, – J. G. Jopling exhales, moving closer to the young prostitute and licking her neck in reward – surely he can see in darkness almost as well as in the light, she is convinced. – There’s a nice girl, a lovely bittie... One helluva great hookshop, dis, to meet ’ere a lass like ya... Ya stay a good, sweet gal an’ make Joplin’ glad, will yer not?..

Finally, finally he puts the menacing cold steel away, then effortlessly reaches for his flask once more, makes another gulp and then suddenly brings its neck to the girl’s burgundy lips.

– Drink, - He orders hoarsely, knowing full well that making his street girls drunk is most often the only way of getting them to love him, obey him, stop fearing him. Confronted with the entirely unexpected task, the female nearly chokes on the vile liquor streaming into her mouth which is still sore from pleasuring this man. But Jopling’s left arm is draped around her slender back so tightly that she has no more chance of withdrawing her head from the small vessel than she has of escaping this very room. Blushing still more, she takes with her swollen lips the steel neck which bears small fang-marks on its rim, and swallows the cheap, bitter, oily-thick booze, her insides at once catching that special fire which is not at all nice and pleasant but promises a pounding headache and bouts of sickness. A terrible burning aftertaste settles in the back of her throat as her head starts to swim and her body slackens – never before has she tasted anything even remotely this strong, no wonder her reaction is so quick... Klara’s eyes glaze over; her thoughts become tangled and dulled as the fiery liquid slowly but inevitably reaches into her every extremity, into her very heart. Nonetheless, she drinks more from the flask, just like its owner did moments ago, until the esquire makes sure the girl received enough doze of strong liquor for his needs and puts the vessel away. His brandy-reeking breath wafts over her as he claims her soft, bitten lips for the umpteenth time, tasting the remains of her cheap cosmetic onto his invading, probing tongue; and to the girl’s complete surprise, her own tongue slides into his mouth, going over those scary fangs of his – he’s told her curtly that he’d installed them for fun, in place of his real teeth which had been knocked out in some bygone fight. The poor strumpet succumbs to the deceptively soothing force of the notorious alcohol, and nothing alarms or bothers her anymore.

– Yer like Joplin’s large gun, eh?.. – The private agent mockingly inquires, drunkenly grinning against the soft skin of Klara’s graceful neck and pressing the submissive girl further into the bed, covering her completely with his heavy, powerful body, as her stockinged legs instinctively part to let him in and her nipples harden under his thumbs. – Fer sure yer do… Feel its fine sleek muzzle homed at yer nice drippin’ target, eh?.. Ya keep dis in mind: Jop’s a first-rate marksman, his skill feared far an’ wide. – He utters a low chuckle. – I tells ya girl, yer have oiled me lon’, hard barrel so fuckin’ prettily, ya really did… Well then, let us see jus’ how many rounds we still have in da magazine…

His firm body changes position as he moves a bit lower, his brass-knuckled hands embracing the girl’s narrow shoulders and his brandy-fueled tongue sweeping over her bruised breast. Oh, how he likes to feel her fear and pain, it makes the fun all the more intense – nah, downright great. Thus he makes a particular point of using his heavily-armored fists and brings his sharp lower teeth into play, making her quaver, whimper and cry out under him, again and again. The taste of her blood arouses him even more; he feels his massive flesh twitch with the sensation, at once registering that her blood tastes way more sweeter and headier than his own – oh, this harsh, violent, experienced fighter knows the taste and smell of his own blood well, all right… His rough lips scratch and devour her sensitive skin as he slides his armored hands down Klara’s barely moving body, making her shiver at the cold metal’s contact with her warmed flesh. She thinks she can discern the contours of each tiny skull of his hand-weapons as they are deliberately, with much force, being pressed against her sides, her breasts, her belly - ah, the Jack of Skulls they call him, that’s it... Heavily inebrious and unable to control her slack body anymore, the girl instinctively bucks her hips, seeking contact with Jopling’s hard, hot shaft, the girth and length of which have impressed her so much from the very start. Finally he sweeps his knuckledustered hands over her heavy breasts, kneading them and squeezing with almost as much force as he would use when grabbing his motorcycle’s handlebars. Then Jopling roughly enters her, going all the way into her tight wet womb, the male’s close-cropped head falling onto her right shoulder and his drunken breath wafting over her neck as he emits a strained groan of pleasure.

– Yer mark Joplin’s word, girlie: gonna ride yer fast jus’ like that bike of mine… – He promises into her ear in a hot, excited breath, his fangs piercing her dainty lobe. – Ride yer so hard an’ fast…

He starts moving over the young inebriated woman, accelerating with every powerful thrust and contentedly smirking against her neck, holding her tightly in his strong, sinewy arms as she unwittingly slides her small hands up and down his sweat-slicked back and listens to his quick, aroused panting. In the total darkness enshrouding them he whispers to her rough, dirty words of encouragement, and all this seems to last for eternity. Eventually, the always calm and patient esquire feels he can hold back no more. His whole body shivers violently as Jop loses all self-control, and Klara hears him swearing over her right ear in a muffled, hoarse tone with barely concealed pleasure, as his long-suppressed culmination hits him full force and he stops all motion before dropping onto her warm, welcoming body filled with his hot liquid to the brim. After, they lie quietly side by side on the sagging bed, on the sheets crumpled and torn in the heat of Jopling’s rough passion. The gaze of their hazed eyes is directed at the ceiling lost somewhere in darkness; and the air in the stuffy room is heavy with the tangs of sweat, blood from the bites, and spilled semen, as well as that brandy and cheap perfume. The poor Klara hurts all over, especially at her racked breasts and worn-out jaw and the space between her legs, not to mention the bruises left here and there by the brutish esquire’s iron hands. And she is awfully, deadly, incredibly tired – for sure no one else has made her that tired before, no other customer could ever hope to rival this grisly gun-for-hire guy who’s happened to stride into her room hours ago… Oh, but she’s going to need a long time to recover…

Outside, the late wintry night has claimed the sleeping cruel city, and a dense fog hangs in thick smoky tufts close to the ground, over the rooftops, glowing a pink-orange hue in the feverish light of streetlamps and house lanterns. The dark alleys of this gloomy criminal district are ominously quiet, and dry frosty wind sweeps now and again over the snow which covers its narrow sidewalks and low roofs in thick layers, dimly brilliant in the faint moonlight.

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**Author's Note:**

> The style of some episodes has been influenced by those of Stefan Zweig and James Joyce.  
> The esquire's nightmare in Chapter 2 was influenced by a particular episode from the film "Interstellar".


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